


Nameless

by Infie



Series: Sojourn in the Void - Alternate Season 3.5 [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate S3.5, Amnesia, Gen, League of Assassins - Freeform, Violence, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infie/pseuds/Infie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With no other tenable choice, the terrifying man who emerged from the pit becomes a League initiate, under Nyssa who is caught between his plans, her plans, and those of her father.  In Starling, the team receives the results of StarLabs tests on the sword and have to face the inescapable truth - Oliver died on the mountain.  SCPD works to identify the human traffickers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survive

Sense returns slowly. 

He remains still as consciousness seeps through him. The tiniest flex of his muscles reveals bands of hard metal around his wrists and ankles, and the unyielding surface below him resolves into cold stone. 

He’s chained. Clearly the people who captured him view him as a threat. As an _enemy_. 

He returns that sentiment with fervour. 

He breathes. 

And he plans. 

Unknown time passes before a rattle announces the approach of a new threat. He waits, maintaining his breathing as evenly as possible. A soft scuffing sound reveals the threat’s position as it moves closer. He waits until he can feel the air move against his skin, and then he attacks. 

A sudden roll to his back brings him hard against the threat’s legs, taking the man to the ground with an inarticulate scream of pain as his elbow strikes the threat’s knee and breaks it with an obscenely loud _crack_. A quick curl brings him to a crouch over his opponent and he snarls in the man’s masked face before grabbing his head between his hands and wrenching it violently to the side. 

The screaming stops as abruptly as it had started. 

He stares down at the corpse in front of him dispassionately. A quick search of the body proves that he is not carrying keys, food, or water. The man carried a knife in his belt sheath, a sword across his back, and a set of darts in a forearm brace. He curls his lip and leaves the weapons where they are. 

_He is the weapon._

He settles back to wait for the next threat to appear. 

The wait is long, and he wonders absently at his lack of hunger or thirst. 

He flexes his hands, feeling the tendons in his wrist bulge underneath the shackles. Another look at the corpse and he considers trying the knife against the heavy metal. A soft susurration at the door to his prison has him looking up and tensing for battle instead. 

This enemy abandons stealth immediately and attempts to rush him with a loud screech and knives jutting from both fists 

He rises smoothly from his crouch and punches his attacker full in the throat, cutting off the noise and dropping him in a single fluid movement. This one carries no keys or sustenance either. 

He’d awakened calm, but anger is beginning to make a resurgence. He drags the body alongside his previous kill and returns to his crouch. 

_Patience._

The wait is much shorter this time. 

A flood of black-clad men flows through the door, clearly aiming to overcome him through weight of numbers. He bares his teeth and releases the rage he’s been hoarding close to his heart, moving through the crowd like a shark. Strength pulses through his veins, lending power to his strategically chosen strikes. His body is all the weapon he needs and he glories in _finally_ giving himself over to the violence, to the stark beauty of dealing death as elegantly as possible. 

“Enough!” The voice cracks through the room like a breaking bone and the tide recedes immediately. He wraps his chains around the neck of one attacker attempting to disengage and _wrenches_ , sliding behind the desperately choking body as a shield. 

“You may release him.” The speaker steps into the room in a swirl of cloth and _presence_. She is magnificent, all erect carriage and pride with the stride of a stalking cat. 

She is a _threat_. 

He growls in refusal. 

She flicks her fingers at him in irritation. “Very well. Maintain your inadequate human shield if you must.” 

He narrows his eyes at her transparent taunt and simply tightens his chains. His captive gurgles. 

“My father is considering relegating you to a graduation challenge,” she says with a bitter contempt in her voice that is meant to sting. “That no initiate would be permitted League status without defeating you.” She glances around at the blood-spattered stone and the bodies that litter the cell. “I shall inform him that would be an excellent way to ensure the League ceases to expand.” Her eyes find his with a cold dispassion he discovers he approves of. “Or, we could follow a different option.” 

“Prove to me that you aren’t an enemy,” he says in a gravelly voice, through a throat that feels raw with disuse. “And maybe we can discuss it.” 

There’s a reaction in her face, a ghost of shock that flickers through her eyes before she locks it down tight. “You can… You choose to speak now?” 

“Maybe someone should have tried talking to me earlier,” he tells her. 

“Perhaps.” She studies him closely, careful to show nothing in her face. He wonders distantly what she is looking for, then realises. 

“Do you know me?” 

She answers easily enough, with a directness that his mind translates as _truth_. “I once knew a man who wore the face you do, but the man who stands before me now is a stranger.” 

He feels like this should be important, that he should be hanging on her response, and wonders why it isn’t. “What was that man’s name?” 

“Irrelevant. That man is dead. He died at my father’s hand. The light left his eyes before my father’s sword left his body.” She taps a finger against the hilt of the knife at her belt, a single movement that tells him much. She is uncomfortable facing him, though he realises that disquiet does not necessarily translate into _fear_. This woman would fear very little, and it has nothing to do with the blades she wears. The knife itself is as irrelevant as the name of the dead man she once knew. He sees it in her. 

_She_ is the weapon, just as he is. 

He considers her answer a moment and then shrugs. A minute tightening around her eyes tells him she was expecting a different response, that his indifference has irritated her. 

Good. 

She continues. “My father has given to you greatly, but his aid is not a gift. You owe a debt to the League of Assassins and to Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon's Head. Without us, you would be rotting on the side of a mountain with no one to sing your songs. Most who come to the League search us out in hope of gaining the smallest favour of an audience. You have been given a great deal more than that, and all unearned. This debt is real, and you will provide restitution for it, one way or another.” 

The man struggling for breath against him goes suddenly limp. He loosens his grasp just a tiny amount, enough to avoid his hostage’s death if it hasn’t occurred already, but not enough to give him an advantage if he is faking. 

The woman ignores the limp figure. “Two possible paths lie before you. The first is hard. To pay your debt you would be used as a training slave for our League. You would fight for your life several times a day until my father deems your debt repaid, which will not happen quickly. The healing effects of the Pit will cease to assist you and you will most likely die early. So far you have faced mere initiates, and my father would have you facing our League. In the unlikely event that you survive you could someday, far in the future, see some form of freedom, at which point you would be cast out of our home and would travel the remainder of your path alone.” Her eyes bear into his intently. “The second path is harder still. It leads to grief and despair, and will result only in your eventual death. You would travel this path at the direction of Ra’s al Ghul, aimed at the targets he sets before you, subservient to his will. The only guarantee on this path is that you will be pushed to your utmost at every turn, that you will be remade stronger than you believe you could be, and that you will be a part of a brotherhood that has stood together for thousands of years.” 

He frowns at her. “Is there a third option?” 

In one fluid motion she draws her sword and holds it out to him, hilt first. “Die. Now.” At the expression on his face she tilts her head slightly. “I would not have you say later you did not understand the choice before you.” 

He releases his captive in a jangle of chain. “Three paths. Slavery and eventual death, the League and eventual death, or immediate death.” 

She nods, impassive. “Choose.” 

He takes the sword from her and weighs it carefully in his hand, considering. When he swings it back the circle of initiates recoils in reaction. The woman remains still, waiting calmly. 

He swings the sword overhand, slamming it down on the ring holding his chains to the floor. The ring cracks apart with a resounding clang. 

“League,” he says, and hands her back the sword. In his head, he hears, _Survive_. 

“I am Nyssa,” she tells him steadily, taking it and sheathing it smoothly. “Daughter of Ra’s al Ghul. Heir to the Demon.” 

“What will you call me?” he asks after a long moment. 

“In the League, you must earn your name,” she replies imperiously. “If you survive training, you will be granted the gift of a name upon ascension to our ranks. Know this, ascension is by no means certain. Training is arduous and,” she looks around them at the scattered bodies meaningfully, “often deadly. There is no leaving the League once you have been accepted as an initiate. There is only ascension, or there is death.” She lifts her chin. “Joining the League means leaving everything you were before behind. You are nameless, nej h'ul, and if you must be called you will answer to that.” Her lips twist with an emotion he can’t quite name. “Go with Sarab. He will provide you guidance.” 

_Nej h'ul._

_Nameless_. 

He’s certain from the look on her face that he’s supposed to be feeling some kind of reaction to her words. Anxiety perhaps, or fear. Maybe insult? But the fact is, he feels none of those things. Nor anything else. 

Nej h'ul. Nameless. 

Yes. That seems right.


	2. Initiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyssa begins the evaluation of the new initiate, and starts to form a new plan of how she can proceed.

Seeing him in the cell had been startling. 

Sarab had informed her of his lethality and his unflinching ferocity, but she had been unprepared for the man… for the creature that flowed through the mass of League initiates like fire through tinder, and with as much destruction in his wake. It was a feat made more impressive by his weaponless, naked, chained state. The Pit had given him healing, had erased the terrible wound through his chest as if it had never occurred, but had also taken with equal measure, robbing him of flesh where he had little enough to begin with. The Pit had accelerated his metabolism, had lengthened his hair, beard and fingernails while his muscles were delineated starkly under skin pulled too tight. All of this she had been expecting, and was not taken aback. 

When he lifted his head, though, when she met his gaze and saw _nothing_ looking back; that she was sorely unready for. 

She had seen Oliver Queen calm, triumphant, devastated. She had seen him resolute. Had seen him look at Sara with affection and at Felicity with adoration. Had seen him resigned to his fate. 

Whatever had stared back at her from Oliver Queen’s eyes, was not Oliver Queen. The Pit was not used without sacrifice, and the price for Oliver’s life was Oliver’s _life_. 

She understood Sarab’s discomfort, now. No one could look upon such emptiness and not feel disquiet. For her it was so much worse. One more avenue to Sara’s true killer was closed to her and it hit her like a kick to the chest. She hadn’t realised how much she had been relying on him returning whole. Sarab had informed her as well of her father’s delay in placing him in the Pit. Two days dead had all but guaranteed he would be stripped not only of memory but of sanity as well. A guarantee the Pit had delivered on. 

Her father’s retaliation for her manipulation on the mount. A blow to each of her and Sarab; striking them both with a single stroke. A demonstration that he might be prone to pride but he was not blind to their actions in playing on it. 

Ra’s al Ghul might give in, but he would never give in gracefully. 

Then, he had spoken, and had overturned her again. The creature had _spoken_ , and had been clear and rational if less than eloquent. It was a stark contrast from the savagery of his actions and the chasm in his eyes, and it was the most unsettling thing she’d ever experienced. Remembering it now, she shuddered again. When she had demanded he choose, had proffered the sword, she had been genuinely uncertain of what his action might be. He was disturbingly unpredictable. 

She wished with all her heart that he had simply chosen death. This version of the glittering man she’d known was an obscenity. Sara would be horrified by what her childhood love had been twisted into. 

She entered the training arena, a grand cavern hewn of rough stone and soft sand, and faced the current group of League initiates of all skill levels. After _he_ had so effectively winnowed their ranks, only eight of the senior nej h’ul remained. _He_ stood apart from the initiates and she saw how the less disciplined of them flicked nervous glance at him, how they leaned away. He ignored them all, eyes steadfastly front. 

The sight of what used to be Oliver Queen in the line was cause for another jolt of surprise. 

Clean and clothed in the snug black fabric of the initiate, with shaved face, his hair slicked back and the clothing shrouding his too-lean frame, he looked absurdly normal. If it were not for the unnatural stillness of his face and that yawning emptiness in his eyes she would have believed him intact. 

But he was not, and it would do her in excellent stead to keep that fact in the forefront of her mind at all times. He must not sense her disquiet, must not even guess at the fact that he made her nervous. He would perceive it as vulnerability, and there was no question in her mind as to what his reaction to the slightest weakness would be. 

The Pit produced only one result. 

A predator. 

She strode directly to him, ignoring the other initiates with practiced disdain. “You,” she said clearly, “will be evaluated.” 

Sarab stepped forward. 

“No,” she stopped him. “By me.” She returned her regard to the creature in front of her. “We will begin unarmed.” 

He nodded. 

“I have said this is an evaluation. It is. I am assessing your skill.” She lifted a challenging eyebrow. “Skill implies control. Your goal is to incapacitate. You will not hold back.” 

His face didn’t change, those disturbing eyes locked on hers. 

“I already know that you can kill without hesitation. You will now prove to me that you can fight, instead.” 

A long, slow blink and a slight inclination of his head showed his understanding of her point. Sarab led the other initiates to the far side of the cavern, well away from where she would perform the evaluation, but she saw them sneaking looks as she shook free her cloak and tossed it to the side. 

“First, defense.” 

He lifted his hands and immediately slid into a standard defensive stance without waiting for more direction. She could see the influences from his training in the way he held his body, could almost see his instructors in her own place simply from his orientation and positioning. She slid forward and he flowed backward as if attached to some invisible pole holding them apart. It was perfectly seamless and she knew that he was simply reacting, trusting his body’s memory in the absence of his own. 

He had no other option, of course. The many thousands of hours of effort that he had put into honing his reactions and physical response had driven their lessons deep, into bone and into places that consciousness could not reach, places beyond the grasp of the Pit. 

She filed that thought away for later and attacked. 

In an unorthodox move she went for his legs, diving to the ground past his forward foot and taking his rear leg from under him. He stepped forward and twisted free, moving into a forward roll and returning to his feet, spinning to face her. She smiled and threw an elbow strike at his temple that he easily slapped aside, and followed up with a set of erratically placed hits that tested his timing and precision. He handled it all comfortably and she was only able to make full contact twice. Finally she stepped back. 

“Excellent,” she said. 

He simply watched her, waiting. 

She had seen him with the initiates, and she rolled her shoulders before setting herself firmly. “Now, attack.” 

He was on her before she finished speaking, his speed astonishing. She blocked him barely in time, shoving his fist past barely a quarter inch from her cheek. She turned into him, spinning into an elbow to his back in an involuntary response. She grimaced at herself; she was supposed to be performing only defence. He had taken her by surprise and she had replied instinctively instead of with discipline. Her father would be unimpressed with her. 

When they re-engaged she was prepared for his speed, but with each hit that she avoided or deflected his ferocity grew. He had taken her demand for no holding back to heart. There was no hesitation for striking a woman or attempting to moderate his power. Instead he simply set out to incapacitate her any way he could. 

And he was very creative at coming up with options. 

Very quickly she found herself pressed to the brink of her ability. He was blindingly fast and incredibly strong, and he switched between pure offense and attempts to grapple with seamless ease. Several times he almost had her caught against his body, and many more times she barely evaded a strike that would have successfully flattened her. He gave her no opportunity to disengage or stop the evaluation. 

Finally, she dodged the wrong way and he caught her neck with his hand. The next instant she was bent backwards over his knee, staring at the roof of the cavern with his arm curled around her neck and no leverage to move. She felt the muscles in his arm tense, and realised that she was about to die. 

With an almost inaudible growl that she felt vibrate through his ribs he let go, dropping her to the sand and taking a step back. 

She rose gracefully, giving a little shake to knock loose the sand and regain her composure. When she looked him in the eyes she expected to see triumph, or possibly disappointment at having to stop. 

Still there was nothing, and she wanted to scream her own frustration to the skies. 

“The unarmed evaluation is complete,” she said, and inclined her head deeply to him with respect. “Your defense is excellent and your attack better still. You show excellent discipline. You are well past ascension level of skill in this area. We will evaluate your training skill another time. If you can control yourself with the lesser skilled initiates, you will be required to train them until you reach ascension level for each of the disciplines we demand of you.” 

She saw the small tightening of his face at her mention of those less skilled and knew that he considered that his restraint in not killing her had already demonstrated his control. She approved when he let it go. 

“Next will be knives.” She gestured to the long table of knives set up for the initiates to use. “Choose your weapons. Defence first.” 

He moved smoothly along the table, lifting some of the blades and testing the weight and balance. Finally he selected a pair and returned to face her, rotating his wrists and flipping them forward and back in his hands to get the heft. She waited patiently until he finally stilled. 

“Are you goi...” 

She punched him in the face with her knife hilt and swept his legs before he managed to get the words out, dropping to her knee in a whirl of motion and stabbing downward at his chest. He rolled with the momentum of his fall and eluded her strike, curling back to his feet and lifting his hands into defense. She noted with approval that he automatically shifted the knives to jut downward and tucked them blade out along the his wrist and forearm, the classic sign of a trained knife fighter. There was a smear of blood on his cheek where her strike had split the skin, but the small cut had already closed. 

He set his feet, smoothly shifted balance and attacked with breathtaking speed. She defended skillfully, catching his knives against her own and deflecting his strikes past her, though she was very hard pressed to keep up. Without warning he changed his speed and target, dropping to a knee to slash at her leg. A killing blow if he had landed it, but she pivoted and kicked his arm aside, driving her knife towards his back. 

Instead of resisting her kick he let his body follow his arm, collapsing into a side roll that slammed his torso into her leg. She dove over him, feeling her knee twinge in warning. They both regained their feet and faced each other, hands up and ready. 

“Defence,” she admonished and saw his lips tighten in response. 

She went this time with a straightforward whirlwind attack, slashing at him with wide circling strokes. He deflected her easily, their steel clashing with muted ringing as he knocked her hits to each side. She changed her speed and spun around his arm, striking at his unprotected flank from the side. He rolled forward, away from her blade, and came up swinging his own counter attack. Immediately she disengaged. It took him a moment to process and he finished his punch before straightening warily. 

She considered him for a long moment. She could feel herself frowning and wondered briefly what he saw. 

Irrelevant. 

This time she ensured that she is set properly before giving him the nod. He would be still irritated by her ambush. “Attack.” 

He lifted his hands and dropped into a light crouch, circling to her left and moving his fists a little, making the light flash across the blades lying in wait along his wrists. She’d expected him to charge and it took her a moment to respond, a lapse that had her berating herself in her mind. She followed him, allowing her body to respond to his movements with the same bone deep instinct that he had demonstrated earlier. His eyes narrowed. 

When he leaped forward, she was already moving away, leaning back and letting his arm glide past above her. She snapped back erect to calmly push his second slash past her shoulder, spinning past him. He whirled faster than she had thought possible, but she was still ready for him and simply grabbed his wrist between her own, twisting hard and dropping him to the sand with a heavy thud. 

“The knife evaluation is complete,” she said firmly, stepping back out of reach and lowering her hands to sheathe her knives. He rose and she saw him consider another attack, and further saw him discard it. A complicated mixture of approval and despair swirled through her. He father was watching, and her father was going to love what he was seeing. “Your skill level is clearly superior but not yet appropriate for ascension. Senior grade.” 

Some expression flared through his eyes too quickly for her to read, like a glimpse of a shark flicking past in deep ocean. 

“You have excellent speed and positioning, but you are weak on defence. You rely on your speed and on conversion to attack to recover from your defensive errors,” she continued inexorably. “Had I used the blade of the knife instead of the hilt you would currently be dead, from my first strike.” She leaned forward and bared her teeth at him. “And the pit may be used only once, nej h’ul.” 

He considered her words before nodding abruptly. 

“I will continue your evaluation tomorrow,” she said slowly, discarding her original plan to pass through all of the weapons today and pass his training to others. If he continued to display this level of skill and deference her father would be demanding his full League status within days. 

But she had seen the shark, and she mistrusted his compliance. 

Worse yet, she still did not know whether she wanted his apparent subservience to the League to be genuine or if she wanted him to be dissembling. Neither choice was appealing so long as he remained so fundamentally _alien_. 

She realised he was waiting for her to continue and straightened her shoulders resolutely. “Today we will work on your knives,” she finished and drew her own. “First, defense. Focus only on deflecting or stopping my blade. Do not attack. Half-speed.” He nodded understanding and she swung, steel gleaming in the light of the cavern. 

Tonight she would begin dosing him with votura. It would focus his mind on their instruction and would help cement his commitment to League doctrine. They needed to be able to be certain of him. 

And, perhaps, the votura would help her convince him to _remember._


	3. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> StarLabs finishes the analysis of the sword, and Felicity gathers the team at the Foundry to learn the results, which lead to desolation for everyone.

“Felicity?” 

Gerry’s voice and soft knock broke into her intent concentration on the project financials she was reviewing and she jumped, making her paper coffee cup wobble at the edge of her desk. She managed to catch it just before it toppled over to the floor. 

“What?” she bit out far more harshly than she intended, lifting her head and glaring. 

“You have a visitor?” he said hesitantly. 

Barry stuck his head around the door above Gerry’s shoulder. “It’s me,” he said quietly. 

She noted the solemn look on his face and felt her stomach heave. “Barry,” she forced herself to smile and stand, though she leaned her hip against the desk for strength. “It’s ok, Gerry. Barry’s welcome to see me any time, no matter what I’m doing. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” 

Gerry withdrew with an understanding nod and she sighed, extending her hand to pull Barry into a hug. “I’ve been a complete bitch to him for weeks now,” she said mournfully. “I’m not sure if I feel worse for being so rude, or for how forgiving he’s being about it.” 

Barry hugged her tight. “He adores you just like we all do,” he said into her hair before letting her go. He kept a hand on her arm, clearly trying to offer what support he could. “Caitlyn’s finished the analysis,” he said. 

“Oh.” She sagged a little and looked for her chair, sinking into it gratefully. 

“She said she’s sorry it took so long. We had a couple of incidents that slowed her down.” He shrugged a duffle bag off his shoulder and set it on the floor beside her desk, carefully setting the carrier for the sword on top of it. It looked just as evil to her now as when she’d first given it to him. 

Barry frowned at the expression on her face. “Seriously, Felicity, are you ok?” 

“No, not really.” She made herself smile. From the way Barry’s frown deepened, it looked as sickly as it felt. “But it’s nothing you’d be able to help with, at least not right now.” 

He hummed a little, clearly unconvinced, and she turned her back on his all-too perceptive gaze to lift her phone and type in a terse message to the team to meet her at the Foundry. 

“Felicity,” Barry asked in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use. “Where’s Oliver?” 

“Felicity!” Ray swept into her office, tapping at his tablet, oblivious to the tension in the room. “I just got the financials, thank you, but do you think that maybe we could improve the heat exchange coefficient on the … Oh! Company!” 

Barry stepped back and blinked. “Hello?” 

“Ray, this is my good friend Barry Allen,” she grasped at the very welcome interruption. “Barry, this is Ray Palmer. My boss. And friend.” 

Barry extended his hand immediately. “Doctor Palmer! I’ve read some of your work. I’m a big fan.” 

Ray blinked at Barry’s enthusiasm, clearly unused to being greeted with such open friendliness, but he responded just as energetically. “Barry… Felicity has mentioned you! Only good things, of course. She said you’re interested in chemical sciences in particular… Hey! I’ve been having this problem on a project I’m working on. It’s a fabric that helps conduct electrical impulses from skin into channels that direct the charge to circuits controlling servo-mechanisms, but as the fabric flexes it keeps creating micro-fissures…” 

Barry was nodding along, “in the conducting medium, of course. Have you considered using monofilament, or, oh! How about a form of liquid medium instead? That would provide full flexibility and never…” 

“Cause micro-fissures, that’s really a very good idea.” Ray beamed at him. “Hey, want to walk with me a bit, talk about it more? Maybe we could figure out what the best liquid would be?” 

Barry shot Felicity a look filled with uncertainty. “I’m really here for…” 

“Absolutely he should!” Felicity pasted on a smile and made a little shooing motion at them both. “You guys go have fun. You already delivered the packages from Caitlyn, so please. Go do science. Yay science!” 

Ray’s eyes raked over her, as always too discerning under his wide-smiling exterior, and when Barry did the same thing she could feel her smile thin with irritation. She could see them both register it, and in unison they turned to the door, resuming their conversation with over the top heartiness. 

“So, yes, liquid medium! Good idea! How would we keep the wearer from just seeming _wet_ , though?” 

Barry gave a too-loud laugh and went out the door first. “I’ve had good success with compressible micro-fibers, maybe that would work…” 

Ray stuck his head back through the door and gave her a grin that almost reached his eyes and a fist pump. “Yay, science!” He disappeared, and their excited voices receded. It felt like they took all the air in the room with them. 

Felicity looked down at the duffle and the sword case at her feet, and suddenly her knees just stopped working. She sat back down in her chair with a graceless thump. The painful lump of ice in her stomach that she’d almost gotten used to abruptly felt as if it had grown jagged spikes. 

The proof, one way or another, was literally within arm’s reach, and she didn’t think she could face it. 

Her phone chimed as the team replied to her messages, and she wiped her cheeks briskly, finding them wet with tears she didn’t even realize she was shedding. A couple of deep breaths later and she heaved herself to her feet, cursing the high heels that made it a much harder endeavour than she was really prepared for. She picked up the sword carrier with a shudder, and slung it over her shoulder before grabbing the duffle too. It felt hot against her back. 

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode out of her office. 

Whether she could face it or not, she _would_. 

It was time to learn the truth. 

She met John in the Verdant parking lot. He looked exhausted, grey under his dark skin. Automatically she extended her hand and he took it with an almost desperate strength, hurting her fingers a little in his grip. The pain grounded her and she leaned against his shoulder for a second, offering what strength she could in return. Silently they both turned towards the hidden door to the Foundry. 

As they reached the training mats, a heavy clatter came from the stairs and Roy bounded down them. Laurel was on his heels, elegant and poised as always, her calm belied by the darkness in her eyes. 

Roy hit the bottom of the stairs and jogged over to them. “Hey!” He started to greet them when he caught sight of the sword carrier jutting over Felicity’s shoulder. He paled and leaned his hip against the table for support. “Oh.” 

Felicity gingerly swung the carrier off her back and set it on her computer table, then set the duffle from Star Labs beside it. “Caitlyn’s done,” she said unnecessarily. They all looked at the duffle as if it was about to jump up and strike at them, like it was a sleeping snake. “Right,” she finally said, taking a deep breath and unzipping the bag. “Let’s see the results.” 

The duffle held a tablet and a set of Star Labs sweaters in various colours. Felicity found herself smiling despite the dread in her heart, and she picked up the tablet and swiped it on. There was a set of files on it, all encrypted to her fingerprint, and a video file called ‘watchmefirst’. She took a deep breath, her smile fading, and felt John’s hand grip her shoulder as she pressed play and swiped the video to the main monitor. 

“ _Hello, Felicity,” Caitlyn said from the screen, waving cheerfully. “And of course, Team Arrow. Oh dear, I hope you’re watching this from the … from a secure location. If you aren’t, then I apologize most profusely and I’ll stop talking long enough for you to move.” She paused and tapped her finger for a few seconds. In the background, Cisco rolled his eyes and took a long suck on his slurpie. “Ok, that should be long enough. Now, I know you must be eagerly waiting for the results of the tests that we did, so let’s get right to it, shall we?_ ” 

“Let’s”, Felicity muttered under her breath. The anxiety was making her hands shake and she laced them together. John’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. 

“ _First, the sword itself. Based on a metallurgical analysis, it is approximately two to three hundred years old, and was initially cast somewhere in the middle east, likely Damascus. It is a fairly standard but high-quality short sword with minor asiatic influences, seen in the swept hilt and embellishments on the quillion. The steel was well maintained until recently, when it was used without being cleaned. The blood has begun to corrode the blade. Based on the amount of damage and the rate at which it progressed while it was here, I believe that the blood has been on the blade for just under two weeks. Since we had the sword for a week, that means that the blood was spilled on or about December tenth. In pristine condition, the sword would be worth about twelve hundred dollars. In its current state, roughly one third that amount.” She looked over at Cisco, who was giving her a head-shaking look of disapproval. “I’m just… All right, fine.“ She looked back at the camera. “I’m stalling, I admit it. Here goes._ ” 

Felicity hit pause and dragged her chair over, sitting before her shaking knees decided to give out. Roy and Laurel exchanged looks with John over her head and nodded in unison, all of them grabbing seats. Laurel took the barstool and John the small office chair. Roy simply came over and sat cross-legged on the floor, his back pressed against Felicity’s leg and his hand warm on her ankle. She ran her hand over his hair and let it rest on his shoulder, trying to pass on some of the strength John had been lending her. John pulled his seat up to her left, leaning just enough for her to feel his presence close. She looked at them each in turn. “Ready?” They all nodded assent, and she pressed play again. 

“ _The forensic results.” Caitlyn shuffled her feet and pressed one of the buttons on her keyboard, and a set of graphics came up on the screen beside her. Felicity couldn’t really make out the details. “I’ve included the full set of analyses on the tablet for you to go over in detail. I’ll take you through a quick summary. Firstly, I found several fingerprints on the sword, both on the blade itself and the hilt. I ran a quick set of statistical comparisons and I believe the prints to come from no fewer than two and no more than three individuals. Based on the size and spacing of the prints, I have settled on two individuals, both men. I have included the templars for all prints but as you requested, I didn’t run any matches.” She rubbed her hands together and poked at the keyboard again, bringing up the next set of graphics. “The blood on the blade comes from two individuals, both male. The DNA results are attached, and again I haven’t run matches, but I can tell you that the two men were not relatives. The first blood sample is a very small amount, with more than ninety eight percent of the blood belonging to subject two._ ” 

_Caitlyn took a nervous drink from the mug beside her and set it back down with an audible thunk. She took a deep breath and bit her lip. “There was… there was also tissue. I analysed it and found skin, some with keloid markers, as well as lung, liver, gallbladder, and bone, plus trace amounts of saliva, all from subject two. I further investigated the location and layering of the… material, and I was able to put together this rough approximation of the wound based on the information I found._ ” 

_She reached over and clicked her mouse, and the screen beside her switched to a mannequin-like standing figure. “I believe the blade entered here,” she pointed to an area just below the figure’s chest, at about the level of the diaphragm, and the screen obligingly inserted a graphic of the sword slowly sliding into the figure’s chest. “It entered at a slight upward angle, intersecting existing scar tissue here. It first snagged bone… the upper casement of the ribcage, here, and transfixed the right bottom lobe of the lung, nicking the gallbladder and penetrating the liver before exiting the back, once again catching bone with the back of the ribcage.” The figure fell to its knees._

Felicity felt more than heard the low moan leave her throat. Roy’s fingers had tightened to painful levels around her ankle and she could feel her knuckles creaking faintly as she gripped his shoulder like a lifeline. 

“ _The sword exited the body at a straighter or slightly upward angle. The resulting wound was a full torso penetration of a minimum of five inches in width. While the wound is too far to the right to endanger the heart and the aorta would not have been compromised, there is the possibility, even likelihood of transection of the hepatic artery. Even if the artery was missed, this is a catastrophic wound.” Caitlyn turned off the monitor as the figure on the screen slumped to the ground. She looked at the screen with steady, sad eyes. “In my opinion, it was not survivable. The person who incurred this wound… I’m certain that he died of it. I’ve placed all of the findings and supporting information on the tablet, and I’m here if you have any questions. Or if you need anything. Felicity… Team Arrow. If you need anything, we’re here._ ” 

The video ended. 

Felicity blinked rapidly, trying to bring the world back into focus. She took a deep, trembling breath and then another before deliberately releasing Roy’s shoulder one finger at a time. “Ok,” she said hoarsely. “Ok.” 

Roy buried his face in his hands. “It really isn’t,” he said, muffled. 

John stood and strode to the practice mats, staring blankly at the training dummy. Laurel sat frozen on the barstool, her fingers clenched around the seat so hard the knuckles were blanched yellow. Her face was tight and her eyes were distant, vacant. 

With rapid flicks of her fingers, Felicity started the fingerprint and DNA matches running. “This will only take a minute,” she said. No one responded, everyone isolated in their own cloud of misery. She took a deep breath and shoved her growing nausea away. “While we wait, I guess I could bring us up to speed on the trafficking investigation?” 

John didn’t turn to look, but he nodded to show he was listening. Felicity swallowed hard. “The police found the second warehouse. They were too late. They found… they found twelve dead and chains for forty five. I’ve got new searches running for all video surveillance anywhere within thirty blocks of the location. So far, I have six matches against our video from the first warehouse, but nothing definitive on the operation as a whole. They seem to have decided to go underground for the moment.” She took a deep breath. “That’s bad. I mean, it’s good that they aren’t currently stealing children to sell, but it’s bad because it means two things: they’re smart, and they’re considering their next move. Which, since we have the key to what has to be quite a bit of their money, is going to be finding us.” 

She ran a shaking hand over her hair, trying desperately to ignore the progress bar marching inexorably towards the results of the blood and fingerprint matches, avoiding looking at the Arrow suit mannequin that so closely resembled the figure from Caitlyn’s simulation. “I’ve.. .I’ve set up several sentinel programs, things that should catch any activity that seems to be attempting to trace us . To make sure that someone couldn’t get hold of it and use my parameters to find us, I’ve added a large number of false criteria as well, so we’re going to get a lot of false positives, but I can filter those out fast en….” 

The progress bar suddenly raced to the end and her computer announced its completion with a cheerful beep, popping up the results automatically. Felicity put her hand over her mouth, the incipient nausea abruptly agonizingly present. 

_Oliver Queen. 98% Match._

She spun in her chair and took the three steps to the garbage can at a run, barely making it before losing what little food she’d managed to eat that day. Distantly she heard Roy’s anguished cry and Laurel’s muffled pained moan. All the rest of her attention was on her heaving stomach and aching ribs, her burning throat and the terrible taste in her mouth. As horrible as all of that was, it was still so much more preferable than facing those results. 

She spat repeatedly, finally lifting her head when she felt a bottle of water pressed into her hand. “John,” she said helplessly. 

He nodded, his fingers light on her back. “I know,” he said, and the expression in his eyes was so lost… She found herself wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she could, pressing her ear against his chest to hear the strong steady beat of his heart. 

They stood that way for a long moment before they pulled back in unison. As one they turned to the others. 

Laurel was statue-still, frozen on her seat and staring at the picture of Oliver on the screen. Roy stood a couple of feet from them, glassy-eyed and shocked, his face pleading for some kind of hope from them. Felicity opened her arms and he rushed into them, suddenly so much younger than his years. John clamped a big hand on the back of his neck and Roy shuddered head to toe. 

“He’s really dead,” Roy said into the silence. “Oliver is really dead.” 

“Yes.” Felicity’s throat felt like she’d eaten broken glass and she swallowed hard. “Oliver is really dead.” 

“Jesus,” John’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I don’t know what to do with this.” He turned his head and met Felicity’s gaze, and the expression on his face was terrible. “I already lost Andy, Felicity. _Oliver_...” 

She clamped her lips together and nodded her understanding, her agreement. None of them were ready for this, none of them knew what to do with this. 

_Oliver_. 

“Thea,” Laurel said, and Felicity felt whatever breath she’d managed to get back leave her lungs like she’d been gut-punched. Roy jerked in her arms. 

“Oh my God,” he choked, “ _Thea_.” 

Felicity tightened her arms briefly and then let him go, straightening her shoulders despite the way her legs were still shaking. With trembling fingers she got the water bottle open and took a mouthful, rinsing the bitter burn of bile away, spitting into the garbage can before setting the bottle deliberately on the table. She got a grip on John’s forearm and Roy’s hand and held tightly to them both. 

“It’s time for Thea to know,” she said clearly and far more steadily than she felt. “She needs to know about… about…” 

“Oliver,” John said it for her, gently. 

“She needs to know everything. If Oliver is …” She clamped her lips shut and shook her head. 

“Gone,” supplied John at the same time as Roy whispered, “Dead.” 

Felicity gritted her teeth and forced herself to say it. “If Oliver is dead, then Thea is completely at Malcolm’s mercy. She needs to know what danger she’s in.” She met John’s eyes and saw the agreement there under the searing pain, shifted to Roy and saw his slow nod. 

Laurel carefully unclenched her fingers from the bar stool. “Oliver didn’t want her to know.” 

“She needs to know.” John stated. “She needs to know _everything_.” 

“We can’t drop it all on her at once.” Roy squeezed Felicity’s hand and released it to start to pace. “I’ll tell her.” 

“No.” Laurel hopped down from the stool. “I will. I’ve known her her whole life. She knows me. We’ve been through this before.” She sounded cold, collected, but Felicity could see the shivers running through her. “I’ll tell her that we’ve received word about Oliver, that he’s reported dead.” She lifted her chin a little. Felicity saw it tremble. “I’ll tell her to contact one of you two for the bigger picture. And then I’ll go over to the police station, see what I can find out on our traffickers.” She scrubbed her hands across her face and the elegant prosecutor was back in place. 

Felicity went back to her chair, barely aware that she was towing John with her until she needed to type and found her hand still locked around his forearm. He made a valiant attempt at a smile when she patted his arm in apology, and failed. 

A few keystrokes gave her what she needed. “Thea’s at her apartment,” she told Laurel, who nodded and quietly headed for the stairs. Roy flashed them both an agonized glance before following her. 

As the door clicked shut behind them, Felicity quickly finished the last few steps of setting up her sentinel programs. “John?” She rasped, finger lifting to trace the line of Oliver’s face, still staring out at her from her main screen. Her fingertip left a long smudge on the screen. 

“Yeah.” He sounded so exhausted. 

“You should go home. Kiss your wife. Hug your daughter.” Another blemish on the screen joined the first. 

She saw him shake his head in the reflection of the monitor. “I can’t leave you here…” 

“I want to be alone, John.” She could hear the strain in her voice, and the picture of Oliver was starting to blur from more than just the smears from her finger. “I really need you to leave. Now.” 

John stared at the back of her head as if he could see into her thoughts if he just tried hard enough. She didn’t turn, just stayed intensely still except for that one finger stroking the glass. She felt the hot spill of the first tear down her cheeks. 

“Ok,” he finally said hoarsely. “But I’ll be back. We’re in this together, Felicity. We all need to remember that. You hearing me?” 

“I hear you.” she whispered. 

Reluctantly, John left. 

When she heard the door close behind him, she set the master locks with one careful press of a button, and then stood on unsteady legs to make her way to the Arrow suit. Shaking hands pulled the glass case open. Somehow she managed to unclip the hood from the green leather jacket. The fabric was soft against her skin and she brought it to her face, burying her nose in it and drawing in a deep breath full of Oliver’s scent. Carefully she set it back over the mannequin’s head and clipped it safely back into place. She shut the door with a decisive click and stepped back. 

Her exhale was a sob and her legs finally gave out, dropping her to the floor in a heap of grief and pain. 

This was why, even though it felt so good at the time, she never wanted to hear ‘I love you’. 

People who said ‘I love you’, they left. 

And they never, ever, came back.


	4. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Thea, her missing brother is an intolerable itch of fear and frustration. When Laurel appears at her doorstep, she knows there's more to it than just a passing visit.

Thea sat curled on her sofa, alternately watching the flickering flames in the fireplace and staring fixedly at the, yes, little bit ridiculously big Christmas tree. Her attention kept snagging on their ornaments, Ollie and Thea, and it was pissing her off. She was trying to be patient, she really was, but really, _what the hell, Ollie, how could you leave me alone at Christmas, you giant douche??_ She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to push the headache away. 

She felt it, no matter how many times Malcolm told her she was imagining things. Something was wrong, really, really wrong, in a way she hadn’t experienced since the Queen’s Gambit went down. And even then, even then it hadn’t felt as stark as this did. She hated this feeling. It made her jumpy, and irritable, and so goddamned lonely... 

No. This was ridiculous. Ollie was _fine_ , probably off in Aruba or, yeah, ok, not Aruba because _island_ and _ocean_ , but maybe skiing at Aspen? Or Vail, she remembered he liked Vail, before the shipwreck. 

But… he didn’t really have the available liquid cash for that, and she’d already checked his credit cards. And his bank statements. And there was no activity. At all. 

Her bare foot slapped the floor as she stamped it in frustration, and she realized that she’d gotten to her feet and started pacing and hadn’t even known it. 

Ok, this was intolerable. She was going to hire a private investigator, and she was going to make that investigator’s life a living, breathing daily hell until her brother was found. 

And then, she was going to make _Ollie’s_ life a living, breathing daily hell. Forever. 

After she crushed his ribs in a hug he might never recover from. 

Why? Why would he take the time to chase her down in Corto Maltese, talk her into coming home with all that sweetness and going on about family and a new start, and then leave her without a word less than six weeks later? 

She started pacing again, finally ending up at the kitchen island, where she pulled down a bottle of merlot and opened it with jerky movements, hissing in irritation when she pinched her finger between the ratchets of the corkscrew. A quick pour later and she was swirling the wine to give it some air. 

Maybe she should head over to the club early, check inventory, look over the books… 

When had she become so responsible? When had doing office work become her go-to choice of distraction? 

The knock on her door was a welcome interruption. If she kept going along these lines, she’d be moaning about things like … 401Ks and bunions, and gout. 

The floor felt cold against her feet as she walked over to the door, and it made her shiver. 

“Laurel!” She supposed that Laurel wasn’t quite the _last_ person she’d expected to see, but she was pretty pretty close to the bottom of the list. She shook off her surprise and found herself smiling with genuine warmth. “Wow! I wasn’t expecting to see you. Please, come in.” She threw the door wide and opened her arms for a hug. Laurel gave a little smile and hugged her back, kissing her cheek softly. As she pulled back, Thea noticed the lines of strain around her eyes and the tightness around her mouth, and she felt her stomach drop uneasily. “Uh, would you like something to drink?” She saw Laurel’s eyes go hungrily to her wineglass and hurriedly pulled down a glass from the cupboard. “Water, maybe, or a Coke?” 

Laurel smiled at her, a more natural one this time. “Water, please.” She looked around the apartment, trying to look casual. “This is a beautiful place. What a lovely tree.” 

“Thanks.” Thea led the way to the couch, handing Laurel the glass of water on the way. “Ollie and I put it up before he left.” 

She heard Laurel suck in a breath behind her and tensed, spinning on her heel. “Did OIlie call you? Do you know where he is?” 

Laurel’s eyes were opened wide, maybe at how fast she’d turned to her, and her mouth gaped a little but she didn’t say anything. She could see it though, in her eyes, that she knew something. 

“Laurel, what is it?” She demanded, “I know you aren’t here to visit. You’re never anywhere to just visit anymore. What aren’t you telling me?” 

Laurel blinked, then set her glass on the coffee table with overly controlled care, sitting on the couch as if it would break if she moved too fast. “Actually, I’m here to tell you what I know.” She swallowed hard and looked up at Thea with grave eyes. “Please, sit down.” 

She sat slowly, dread clawing at her with icy fingers. “I’m sitting. Start talking.” 

Laurel laced her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t…” She stopped, then shook her head. “I don’t know how to say this, except right out loud.” She looked Thea dead in the eyes. “Ollie was the Arrow. Two weeks ago, to keep a massacre from happening here in Starling, he went to fight a man named Ra’s al Ghul.” She lifted her chin. “We received confirmation today that he didn’t survive.” Visibly steeling herself, she said it again, starker. “Ollie is dead.” 

“That’s not possible.” The denial left her lips even before she processed the words. Ollie, the Arrow? Ollie, fighting some random guy named Ra’s al Ghul? What kind of name _was_ that? He sounded like something out of a badly written video game. Then the last sentence penetrated, like a sword to the stomach. 

Ollie, dead? 

The fear turned to anger. “Do you hear me? That’s _not possible._ ” She was on her feet, fists clenched and rage in her heart. “Why would you say that? Why would you come here and say that to me?” Her head was shaking side to side in refusal. God, she’d gone with Malcolm so that she’d be stronger, so that she’d never hurt again. But this _hurt_ , like nothing she’d ever felt before. Worse than the first time. Worse than _her mother_. 

Laurel didn’t move, though her fingers were locked so tightly together they were bleached white. “Ollie never wanted you to know about him being the vigilante. He loved you so much, Thea, he wanted to keep you safe.” She licked her lips. “He wanted to keep the city safe. Ra’s threatened the city, and he threatened you, and Ollie couldn’t take the chance that he might get to you. So he went.” 

Thea crossed her arms, partly in denial and partly to try and keep herself from flying apart. “Did you see a body?” 

Laurel shook her head. “No. We were given the weapon that killed him, and we had professionals test it. Professionals that we trust. The results were conclusive.” 

“No,” she said resolutely. “The last time we believed the experts they were _wrong_.” She stopped, narrowing her eyes. “Who is ‘we’, anyway?” 

“The Arrow had a team,” Laurel said. 

“Oh, of course. Probably call themselves ‘The Quivers’...” She thought back to the times she’d seen the Arrow, back to the video replays and Ollie’s constant absences during crises. She thought of Ollie escorting Sebastian Blood to safety at the guns for money exchange, of his calm competence removing the arrow from Roy’s leg. “Ollie was the Arrow,” she breathed. So many things suddenly made sense. The way the Arrow had suddenly appeared at the apartment, had defended himself, but hadn’t made any real attempt to hurt her. Testing her, maybe? She sat down abruptly, like Malcolm had just taken out her feet with his wooden practice sword. “I gave him such a hard time.” 

“He deserved every second of it.” Laurel told her, smiling faintly. Thea could see it, the dark shadow of grief in her eyes. It wasn’t like it had been the first time, that deep humiliation and pain when the Gambit went down, nor was it the wild desolation that had been left in the wake of Tommy’s death. This was darker and deeper and wider, and there was more to all of this than Laurel was telling her. 

“You believe it,” she felt her mouth start to tremble, her heart start to race. “You really believe he’s dead.” 

Laurel nodded, speechless. 

“Ollie can’t be dead,” she was pleading now, and she couldn’t catch her breath. “Laurel, he can’t be. It’s _Christmas_.” It came out as a wail. 

Laurel opened her arms and Thea fell into them, tears starting to stream down her cheeks. They sat like that for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes before Thea gathered herself and pulled gently away. The look on Laurel’s face was… complicated, and Thea imagined she didn’t look much better. 

“I’m not going to believe it,” she declared, regaining her feet and straightening her shoulders as much as she could with the pain in her chest. “I want to see your proof.” 

Laurel nodded. “We decided it was time for you to know everything, no more secrets from you. Oliver was adamant you never know, but… you can’t protect yourself unless you know the truth. You need to know this, too… the very first thought that the team had upon getting the results was _you_. Keeping you safe.” 

Even through the looming grief she felt her stomach drop again at that sentence. “There’s more.” She said it flatly, wanting to throw up. 

“You need to call John Diggle,” Laurel said, standing as if her legs didn’t quite want to hold her. “There is a lot more, and like I said, you need to know it all.” She headed for the door. “Just one more thing, Thea… It’s about Malcolm. I know he’s alive, and he is so incredibly dangerous. Please, Thea, _please_... stay away from Malcolm. Even if you don’t believe me, even if you disregard everything else I have ever said to you, I am begging you, listen to this. Until you get a chance to talk to John and Felicity, stay away from Malcolm. Don’t let Ollie’s death be in vain.” 

She was out the door and gone before Thea could stop her. 

Damn Laurel! ‘Don’t let Ollie’s death be in vain?’ What the hell did _that_ mean? Did she think Malcolm had something to do with this fight Ollie was supposed to have gone off to? She couldn’t… she wouldn’t believe that Ollie was dead until she saw his corpse with her own two eyes, not this time. 

Her eyes fell on the glass Laurel had left on the coffee table and the next thing she knew she’d thrown it across the room. It hit the wall above the fireplace and exploded in a very satisfying detonation of glittering shards. Furiously she turned to the Christmas tree, tearing at it with savage fury. 

Damn Laurel, for bringing her this… bullshit story! 

Damn Ollie, for not being here after making her believe again. In Christmas. In family. In _him_. 

Damn Ollie! 

The enormous tree shook under her onslaught, teetering on its stand and finally tipping over, slamming through the huge window with a resounding crash. Icy cold air rushed in, whipping her loose shirt around her body and making the flames in the fireplace flicker wildly. 

Damn…. She looked down at the little Oliver snowman ornament in her hand, and closed her eyes. 

“You’re not dead,” she told it seriously. “You wouldn’t fucking _dare_.”


	5. Drowning (Laurel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What starts as a simple stop at the precinct completely falls apart as the reality of Oliver's death breaks through Laurel's denial over Sara's death.

It was uncomfortable, especially considering that she’d been the one to offer to tell Thea, but Laurel couldn’t see her rapid exit of the Queen apartment as anything other than what it was: an escape. Not because of Thea; her reaction had been everything that Laurel had expected, full of the grief and rage and disbelief that had taken them both under the last time Ollie had died. Thea had already been so terrified by his absence; it was written all over her. Getting the news that Laurel had come to deliver had just released the lid on the pressure she’d been under. 

Laurel didn’t want to leave her alone, but she just… There was no way she could stay. Looking into Thea’s eyes, swimming with fear and anger and tears, all she could see was the little girl of eight years ago, standing defiantly at the memorial clutching Tommy’s hand as if he’d disappear if she let go the least little bit. The memorial for Robert Queen, and Ollie, and Sara… 

Her mind shied away from it again. 

_Focus._

She grabbed a cab, giving the driver directions to the precinct absently. The traffickers had decided to clear out and lie low for the moment, but Laurel still had hope that one or more of the captives that they had freed would have something useful that they remembered. She’d brought in a team of child psychologists for the kids, and had pored over all of the witness statements from what could be coaxed from the traumatized women as well as the children, but despite their best efforts and genuine desire to help there had been little to go on. Just some half-overheard conversations and the occasional word. Nothing concrete. 

It had been Felicity’s tracking that had led them to the second site with its fresh horrors. Laurel wasn’t sure which way she was hoping for: that the second warehouse contained enough forensics for them to follow up on, or that what they’d already seen was the worst of it. Twelve dead at the second location. As many as thirty-three lost into the underground. The release of the captives at the first warehouse had been a huge win, but within the context of the larger picture none of them could see it as anything other than an abject failure. 

The taxi pulled up at the precinct and she quickly paid and exited, striding up the steps to the door confidently. They still had the guards who had only been knocked out; perhaps they would crack if they applied enough pressure. So far it hadn’t worked, but she was ready to wait them out as long as it took, and to apply any extra pressure she could. It was also still possible that one of the captives could remember something significant; memory was a funny thing that way. 

She took a deep, steadying breath before opening the door. 

Her dad was leaning over the duty sergeant’s desk, talking with his usual abrupt enthusiasm. His face lit up when he saw her. 

“Here she is,” he exclaimed, bumping the sergeant’s shoulder with one hand, rocking him in his seat. “My daughter, come to liven up our Christmas Eve with her beaming smile.” He held out his hand and she took it automatically, the thick callouses on his palm a familiar warm roughness against her fingers. She smiled at him and tugged him into a hug. He felt big in her arms, strong, in a way that meant safety and love. Home, in a way that nothing else was. 

“Daddy,” she kissed his cheek. 

He pulled away with an extra squeeze and looked down at the briefcase in her hands. 

“Yes,” she forestalled him, “I am also here for work. I need to review the forensics from the first trafficking site with you.” 

He slid an arm around her shoulders and ushered her towards his office. “Work. Sometimes it feels as though if it weren’t for work, you’d be avoiding me altogether.” 

“That’s not true,” she chided him gently even as she felt the thrum of guilt in her chest. “I’m always happy to see you.” 

“You didn’t say that when you were sixteen and I walked in on you and Queen making out in the kitchen.” 

She winced at the memory of her father angrily staring down a smug Ollie, who had been flushed and face smeared with the lipstick she wasn’t supposed to have been wearing. He’d been the ultimate parent’s nightmare. She remembered, too, Sara giggling from the doorway, waving at Ollie flirtatiously until he’d given her a saucy wink and her father had threatened to pull his gun to make him leave… Tears stabbed at the back of her eyelids and she blinked furiously, forcing them and the memory away. 

“You know I’ve always loved you best, Daddy.” She set down her briefcase and stepped over to his desk, poking at the precariously balanced pile of files and causing a mini-avalanche just as he arrived to catch them. He huffed in exasperation and pushed them back upright, grabbing a brightly coloured folder from the other side of his desk. “Here,” he thrust it at her. “Your forensics and shots of the scene.” 

She unfolded the file and scanned the forensics report for anything new she could use, or even anything she could give Felicity to chase up. 

Nothing. 

She sighed and set the file aside on the chair, absently pulling out the stack of photos and starting to page through them. Bodies slumped where they’d fallen, huddled together in pitiful little piles of naked skin. She growled a little and continued, feeling something rising inside her. She reached the photos of the dead guards and froze. 

Suddenly it was back in front of her, and all the horror and terror she hadn’t felt at the time crashed over her. All she could see was that horrible guard, skewered and jittering on the spike of Nyssa’s sword through his eye. The glint of light gleaming along that razor sharp edge, blood dripping slowly out of the blood channel to spatter on the ground. 

Nyssa wrenching the sword free, grimacing in absent disgust at the brain and viscous fluid that clung to the blade afterwards. 

The sword, the other sword, lying with casual, deadly menace on the table in the foundry. 

“You know,” her father said brusquely as he re-sorted the remaining files on his desk, missing the expression on her face. “Parts of this scene… it was pretty brutal. Some of the witnesses saw the woman in black at the scene.” He shook his head. “I hope the Arrow isn’t planning on taking up his more lethal habits again. I was just starting to like that guy.” 

She stared at the photos in her hands. The guard with his throat gaping widely where he’d knocked Nyssa’s knife away. The other guard, naked and so covered in blood that his wounds were almost invisible. 

_Oliver, transfixed by that horrible sword, blood pouring from his mouth and spattering the ground as he collapsed to his knees._

A third guard, wet from some unknown cause, left on his back where Nyssa had dropped him. Wet from the sprinklers. 

_Ollie, skin blue-green and sloughing, bloated from the sea._

The photos fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers, scattering across the floor in a flutter of bloody red and blue bruises. 

A blonde woman, staring blankly at nothing, blue eyes cloudy and glittering icily in the camera’s flash. Laurel closed her eyes. 

_Sara, oh God,_ Sara _, dead in the ally, arrows jutting from her chest like an obscene spray of flowers._

Oh, God. Ollie was dead. He was dead. Again. And that meant… 

Oh God, no. It was real. It was real. _Sara_. 

She’d known it before, thought she had grieved. Thought she’d gotten through it. 

She’d always been best at fooling herself. 

Pressure rose in her throat. “It wasn’t the Arrow,” she said thickly. 

“What?” She could hear the sudden concern in his voice, felt him grab her shoulder in one big hand. “Laurel, you look… What it it? What’s wrong?” 

She couldn’t seem to force herself to open her eyes. “It was Nyssa,” she managed to choke out. “She came because… because she had news. That she felt we needed to know.” 

“She came because she had news… Laurel, baby, you’re scaring me. Come on, breathe. Breathe, and open your eyes.” 

“Daddy.” It came out as a sob, and she was holding onto his forearm as if he was the only thing keeping her together. “Sara’s dead.” The words tumbled out, almost unrecognizable. “She’s been dead for over two months.” 

“Nyssa came to tell you that Sara died? Two months ago?” He sounded horrified. 

“No, she came to tell us… to tell us that the Arrow did.” 

“The _Arrow_... but what?” His face twisted in disbelief and confused anguish. “Laurel, you aren’t making any sense. What would that have to do with Sara…” His eyes widened in shock and he took a physical step back away from her, shaking his head like he was trying to shake loose the idea. “Nyssa came to tell you that the Arrow was dead, not that Sara was dead. Because you _already knew_ about that.” 

“I… I knew.” She tried to explain, felt him slipping further away from her as he tried to process what she was saying. That familiar dark grief was starting to flood him again, she recognized it from last time. She felt its echo in her own heart. “I knew, Daddy, but I don’t think… I don’t think I really believed it. Not until today, when we got the confirmation on the Arrow…” 

“The Arrow.” Her father’s voice had turned flat and hard and rage-filled. “You only believed it today, because today you got confirmation that the Arrow is dead. And that made it real because that’s what made it real last time too.” He gave a laugh that turned her stomach. “Fucking Oliver Queen.” 

"You knew..."

He sneered. "Oliver Queen is a lot of things, Laurel, but subtle has never been one of them." He strode to the filing cabinet and slammed his hand into it. The bang rang through the room, and a minute later the duty sergeant was sticking his head into the room. 

"Everythi..." 

"Get out." Her father growled it in a voice she hadn't heard in years, and the sergeant withdrew even faster than he'd come in, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click. "I can't..." He shook his head, still facing the wall. "How could you, Laurel? How could you _not tell me_?" 

"I couldn't!" The cry burst from her, hurting her throat. "I couldn't tell you... I was afraid that your heart wouldn't take it." 

He snorted with derision, still facing the wall. 

"You're right, that's just a lie I was telling myself. I couldn't tell you because I didn't want to believe it. If I told you, then it would be real, Daddy, and I couldn't let it be real. I knew what it would do to you, what it would do to me, and you're all I have left. I couldn't have nothing left again." She was barely able to force the words out through her tears. "But I can't lie anymore, not to myself and not to you. She's gone. Sara's gone." 

He stayed frozen at the filing cabinet, and she could see the rage and grief rolling through him with every heartbeat. His face was turned away, refusing to look at her. 

“Please don’t turn away from me, Daddy. Please don’t shut me out.” She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging tightly. 

He finally lifted his head and the pain in his face took what little breath she was managing to drag into her lungs away. She sank into the chair beside his desk, lifting her hand to him. 

“ _Please_ ,” she begged. 

Her father stared at her for a long, desolate moment before reaching for her hand with agonizing slowness and trembling fingers. “I don’t know if I can do this again,” he said blankly, staring over her head. 

She clenched her fingers around his as tightly as she could, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Me either,” she said, “but what else is there?” 

He closed his eyes in despair. 

Her father sank to his knees in front of his desk and sobbed. 

Barely able to see through the tears streaming down her face, Laurel joined him.


	6. Drowning (John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home to tell Lyla the news.

John couldn’t remember the trip home ever taking so long. He hadn’t wanted to leave Felicity alone, and even more he didn’t want to bring his current mood home to affect Lyla and Sara, but at the same time he’d never wanted so badly to get there and just bury himself in the comfort of his family. 

Of what was left of his family. Oliver’s … Oliver’s death left almost as large a hole in his chest as Andy’s had, and he still wasn’t past the pain of that loss. Oliver’s death was a new gaping wound, and he’d been right; it hurt like a stone bitch and made the missing piece where Andy had been throb like an angry tooth too. 

He braced his hand beside the door and hung his head, trying to come up with the strength to go in, to see Lyla and to face the truth. It was hard, so hard to even begin to process. After all the times they’d come so close and somehow broken away intact, he’d started to think of Oliver as indestructible. An image of the faceless figure from Caitlyn Snow’s simulation flickered behind his eyes, falling to its knees in slow motion. 

He felt a certain kinship with it at the moment. He felt like every breath, every heartbeat was happening at a snail’s pace, as if he was moving through molasses. He tried to make himself reach for the doorknob, and failed. 

As always, Lyla came to his rescue, pulling open the door with Sara on her hip and a welcoming smile that faded the instant she saw his face. 

“You got the results.” She stated it flatly, having read everything she needed to know from his expression. “They weren’t good.” 

He shook his head mutely and she laid her hand on his forearm, tugging gently to bring him inside. Sara patted his arm urgently as soon as he was close enough and he kissed her forehead tenderly. 

Lyla led him to the couch and ushered him down, placing Sara on his lap. She stepped away, returning a few minutes later with a glass of wine and a tumbler of scotch. She set the wine in front of him and downed the scotch with a quick motion. “How bad were they?” she finally asked, looking straight at the wall. 

“Really, really bad.” John leaned back and cuddled Sara close, propping his feet up on the coffee table. He didn’t make any effort to hide the tremble in his fingers or the shaking in his voice; Lyla would see right through him anyway, and of everyone in his life, he never wanted to hide from her. “He’s dead.” 

“You’re sure?” Her mouth was twisted unhappily, and not just for his grief. He knew that Oliver and Lyla had connected in a way that none of the rest of them really had, united in their unique experiences with Argus and Amanda Waller. 

“As sure as we can be without a body.” He picked up his wine, taking a sip and holding the glass carefully out of Sara’s chubby grasping fingers. “Doctor Snow’s analysis and simulation were… compelling.” He drained the wine and kissed his daughter’s forehead, closing his eyes and trying to shove the memory of just how compelling Caitlyn’s recreation had been. He felt tears sting his eyes and heaved a careful breath. “Unless there’s some resurrection machine or some magical back from the dead juice, Oliver is gone.” 

Lyla remained silent, and he tilted his head back to look up at her. 

“Does Argus have a resurrection machine or magical back from the dead juice?” he asked hesitantly. 

Immediately she looked down at him and stroked her hand over his head. “No,” she said sadly. “Argus doesn’t have anything like that, and other than Mirikuru, I’ve never heard of anyone else having anything either.” 

John felt his heart stutter briefly at the mention of Mirikuru. Could Oliver have dosed himself before he went to meet Ra’s? Then he remembered the loathing on Oliver’s face every time he spoke of the ‘miracle drug’, his horror at what had happened to Slade Wilson and felt the spike of hope fade. “No,” he said hoarsely. “He wouldn’t have used Mirikuru.” 

Lyla’s hand stroked over his head again. “Do I have to ask how the others are?” 

“Terrible,” he told her promptly. “Roy went off to find someone to hit, Laurel went to tell Thea about Oliver’s… about Oliver, and Felicity… “ He shook his head, unable to even speak of that horrible devastation in Felicity’s eyes. 

“Oh, Johnny.” All the sympathy and pain she felt was in her voice. “Poor Thea, getting this news on Christmas Eve…” 

John blinked. 

“You forgot what day it is.” She stepped away to refresh their drinks, smiling wryly. 

John’s phone rang shrilly as Lyla sat down beside him, dangling a shiny toy for Sara to giggle at. He glared at the phone, feeling his eyebrows rise in surprise as he saw Thea Queen’s name on the display. He showed it to Lyla, who winced. He slid his thumb to ‘Accept’ and brought the phone to his ear. 

“John Diggle,” he greeted. 

“Mr Diggle,” Thea sounded terrible, her voice fragile and tear-strained. “Laurel said… Laurel said I should call you. That you’d be able to tell me… that you’d be able to explain to me…” She took a deep, shaking breath. “That you knew the parts of my brother that I didn’t.” 

“Miss Queen,” he saw Lyla’s grimace and immediately amended, “Thea. Yes, of course, yes I’ll talk to you about Oliver.” Lyla gestured urgently. “Just one second, please…” 

Thea gave a little choking sound that he took as agreement and he covered the microphone. 

“Invite her over,” Lyla whispered. He looked at her askance. “That girl just lost the only family she had left other than Malcolm Merlyn. She’s all alone, and it’s Christmas, Johnny.” She stopped whispering and ordered, “You tell her to come over here right now.” She launched herself from the couch and headed for the kitchen. “I’m putting on cider and snacks.” 

He uncovered the mouthpiece, “Thea…” 

“I heard,” she said, and he could hear the half-laugh in her voice. “What’s the address?” 

He gave her their coordinates and hung up, setting Sara carefully on the floor in her play area before going to the kitchen and enfolding Lyla in a heartfelt hug. “I keep thinking I can’t love you more,” he murmured into her hair, “and then another day goes by and somehow I do.” 

She softened against him, clasping him tightly. “Me too,” she said and gave him an extra squeeze. “Now get hold of the rest of the team and get them here too. Thea’s going to need all of you, and you all… well. We all need each other.” 

He gave her a half-salute and reached for his phone. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.


	7. Drowning (Roy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve, and Roy's not finding anyone to hit. Then Digg calls and the shape of his night changes again.

The Glades were really, annoyingly quiet. 

Roy skulked through the shadows, shoulders hunched and his hoodie pulled forward to cover his face. All he wanted was someone to hit, someone to take some of the simmering mix of emotions rolling through him out on. He’d thought he struck gold when he heard screaming from a side alley, only to find that it was a pair of teenagers shrieking in glee as they’d had some tag-tickle fight going on. He’d caught himself grinning for a second before remembering that he had no reasons to smile tonight. 

If Doctor Snow was right, then Oliver was dead. The Arrow was dead. Roy’s mentor, his saviour, his _reason_ , was dead. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now? 

He gave up on finding a fight and broke into a run, ignoring the icy rain that started to drizzle down. He set a punishing pace, running across the various streets that made up the Glades, streets he’d become even more familiar with as Arsenal than he’d ever been as just _Roy_ , even though he’d spent most of his life running them in one way or another. 

His breath burned in his lungs and it still felt wrong. Everything felt _wrong_ and he heard a sob rasp out of his throat before he stopped dead in the middle of the street, sides heaving and hands on his knees. He swore he felt a phantom hand jab him in the short ribs, jolting him upright and forcing him to suck air with his head up. He could almost hear Oliver’s growl to ‘stand the hell up, Harper, you can’t breathe right if you don’t give your lungs any room’, and it stole whatever air he’d managed to get. He turned to the side and vomited bile into the alley beside him. 

He couldn’t stand this, he couldn’t take another loss. Damn Oliver and his contagious optimism. Damn him for making him believe in something more. Damn him for leaving him behind. 

He lifted his head and spat to the side before he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 

Everything felt wrong, and it made his flesh jump on his bones. It was unbearable. 

He caught sight of a fire escape ladder in the alley and his eyes followed it to the top of the building, ten storeys above his head. _Yeah_. He needed to go _up_. 

He took a couple of steps back and then sprinted forward, leaping up to grab the fire escape. The momentum helped swing him upwards and he transitioned into climbing rapidly, heading eagerly for the roof. When he reached it he paused barely long enough to verify his position before breaking into a dead run and flinging himself off the edge. The next rooftop rose up to catch him, offering him a tarry surface for his roll out. He was back on his feet in an instant and running again. 

The night air was cold against his face and the drizzle had changed to an ice-laden mist, shrouding the few working streetlights in glowing cloudy balls. It made the handholds and rooftops slipperier, forcing more and more of his concentration to focus on balance and speed, shoving the dark realities of the night to the back of his mind. He lost himself in the purity of breathe and move, run and leap. He let his mind go blank, until there was nothing else. 

His phone shrilled two steps from a ten-foot leap between two rooftops, startling him badly and making him stumble at the edge. He tried to recover and throw himself into the jump but missed the edge. One heart-stopping drop later he slammed into the balcony below his intended landing spot and managed to get one wildly flailing arm over the railing. He pulled himself over the edge and fell onto his back, staring upwards at the wet black sky. 

Fuck, that had been close. 

His phone rang again. 

He fumbled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers. “Yeah,” he gasped, unable to come up with anything more eloquent. 

There was a long pause. “Harper?” It was Diggle. 

“Yeah,” he said again. 

Diggle sighed. “Meeting at my place.” Roy shook his head, knowing his refusal would come through in his silence. 

It did. 

“Laurel spoke to Thea. She’s on her way here.” Diggle paused again, then continued implacably, “So are you.” 

This time he nodded, still speechless. 

“Good. Don’t dawdle.” 

Finally he found his voice. “Dawdle? Seriously? Who says that?” 

Diggle hung up on him. 

Roy let his hand collapse on his chest. His phone’s light went out before it hit his sweater, leaving him in the dark. He blinked away the water from his face, blaming the wetness in his eyes on the mist, knowing even as he did that he lied. 

After a long moment of regaining his breath and slowing his heartbeat he heaved to his feet and made his way down the side of the building, dropping effortlessly from balcony to balcony until he reached street level. 

Clarity slowly started to come back as he made his way to Diggle’s place, as if his mind was pulling itself back to together from some scattered internal locations. The streets came back into focus and he became aware of the little streams of icy water trickling down his back; his hoodie was soaking wet and even his loose jeans were clinging to his legs unpleasantly. He started to shiver and broke into a trot to at least try and keep a little warmth moving through his veins. 

He met Felicity in the vestibule of Diggle’s building. She looked terrible, her eyes dark and sunken in her pale face. She walked straight into his arms, seeming not even to notice his drenched clothes, and just hugged him as hard to her as she could. He squeezed her back before letting go reluctantly, only then realizing that her coat was soaked too. 

“Ready?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. 

“Not even a little,” she said, then heaved a sigh and pushed her glasses up. They were foggy in the warm air of the building. “Let’s go, then.” 

The door to Diggle’s apartment opened before they even got there and Lyla stuck her head into the hallway to greet them, her smile turning to a frankly appalled expression as she took in their states. “What did you guys do? Jump in the river on the way over here?” The demand was accompanied by a hard tug on his arm as she towed him inside. “John! Grab some dry clothes. Roy…” His name was accompanied by a gentle shove between his shoulders, “Is going to take a hot shower.” 

He thought about arguing, but one glance at the look on Lyla’s face changed his mind and he nodded obediently. Felicity took off her sopping coat to reveal clothes that were remarkably dry. “I just need a towel,” she said meekly. Lyla narrowed her eyes at her but let it go. 

Diggle came out of the bedroom with a towel that he tossed to Felicity and a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt for Roy. He took them dubiously. 

“The pants are Lyla’s,” Diggle told him in a low voice. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He pointed to the bathroom. Roy went. 

When he came back out he was much drier and a lot warmer. Diggle and Lyla were on the couch with Sara playing cheerfully at their feet. He looked around, noticing for the first time the Christmas tree nestled in the corner. “Oh,” he said, feeling even worse. “it’s Christmas, isn’t it? I didn’t bring anything.” 

Lyla stood and gave him a warm hug. “You’re here,” she told him firmly. “That’s the best present you could give Johnny or me, to be with our family for Christmas.” 

Diggle nodded silently. 

Roy glanced around again. “No Thea yet?” He frowned. 

“She called about ten minutes ago, said she needed to make a quick stop first,” Diggle reassured him immediately. Felicity emerged from the bedroom, her hair loose and damp around her shoulders. Her eyes too went to the Christmas tree and she winced. 

Diggle got up, sidestepping Sara with practiced care, and slid an arm over her shoulders. “We have something for you,” he said, giving her a one-armed hug and pointing to the window. 

“Oh!” Felicity’s eyes widened as she took in the little menorah Lyla had placed on the windowsill. 

“I know it’s small, and we’re really too far above ground to put it in the window,” Lyla began when she didn’t say anything else. “But I want you to know that you’re our family.” 

Felicity flapped a hand at her and headed for the window. “No,” she said, her voice choked up. “It’s really beautiful, guys, thank you.” 

“Happy Chanukkah.” Diggle handed her a little box of candles and some matches and returned to the couch. 

Roy went to stand at Felicity’s shoulder. The little silver menorah glinted brightly in the blinking lights of the Christmas tree. “It’s cute,” he offered finally, not really knowing what else to say. 

“It is.” Felicity set the candles and matches down on the windowsill beside it. At his questioning look she said, “I want to wait for Thea.” 

As if the words had conjured her, there was a knock on the door, a rhythm that Roy would have known anywhere even if tonight it was a lot more hesitant and a lot less impatient than normal. Lyla headed for the door and pulled it open, a wide welcoming smile on her face. “Come in,” she exclaimed, waving Thea inside warmly. “We’re so very glad you called.” 

Thea gave a tentative smile that wavered when she saw Felicity and disappeared entirely when she saw Roy. “Oh, I’m interrupting,” she said, frowning a little at him. “I didn’t know that you spent time with Roy…” He saw the instant that she realized; her eyes widened and she took a physical step back. “Oh, of course. _Of course_ , you’re Arsenal, he was the Arrow, of course you spent time together.” Her face was tight with hurt. 

“Oliver saved my life,” he blurted out to forestall whatever she was thinking. “I was drugged with the same thing that all those men last year were on, and it almost drove me insane. It did drive me insane. I was dangerous, really dangerous. I … I killed someone. But Oliver saved me, again.” 

Thea blinked and he could almost _see_ the gears turning in her head, shaping her view into something new. “You were drugged?” She took a long step forward and grabbed his arm, raking him head to foot with a searching glare. “You’re ok, right?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “The team got the cure. I guess that means they saved me again. Huh.” 

“We don’t keep count,” Diggle said in his deep voice. “Come on in Thea, welcome.” He pointed to Sara. “Our daughter, Sara.” He gave that smile that changed his face into something soft and warm as he looked at Sara. 

“Awwww.” Thea smiled, the first real one he’d seen from her in almost a year and it stole his breath. “She’s beautiful!” 

“And of course you remember Felicity.” Diggle stepped to the side and Felicity came into view at the window. She couldn’t manage a smile but she crossed the floor to stand at Diggle’s side. 

“Felicity.” Thea frowned a little, then her face cleared. “You were my brother’s EA.” 

Felicity nodded slightly. 

“Laurel said I should talk to Diggle and Felicity,” Thea said slowly. “She meant you.” 

Felicity nodded again. “John and I worked with the Arrow,” she said. “For more than two years.” 

“I had no idea.” Thea laughed and Roy winced at the bitter sound. “He only met you guys, all of you, after he came home from the Island, but you still had so much more of him than I did.” 

Felicity was shaking her head before Thea even finished speaking. “No,” she said so firmly that even Roy believed it. “No, we may have spent more time with him and seen some sides of him that he didn’t want you to know, but you should never, ever, even for a second believe that you weren’t first in his heart, always.” 

An expression flashed across Diggle’s face too fast for Roy to name. Whatever it was must not have mattered because he was nodding along with Felicity’s words. Roy found that he was too. 

“It’s true,” he offered quietly. “The last thing Oliver asked me was to take care of you.” 

“And one of the last things he said to me was that he would do anything, anything at all to protect you.” Felicity lifted her chin. “He loved you more than anything.” 

Thea’s chin trembled. 

“Would you like a drink, Thea?” Lyla came to the rescue. 

“Oh!” Thea rummaged in the bag she’d brought and pulled out a bottle of red wine. “I brought this; it’s one that my father particularly liked. He always opened one on Christmas eve.” 

Lyla took the bottle with an appreciative hum. “Sounds like a tradition I’m happy to adopt!” 

Thea watched her go to the kitchen, looking a bit lost. Suddenly she turned to Diggle and said, “Laurel said I should talk to you about the rest of my brother’s secrets.” 

“Not tonight, please,” Felicity was shaking her head, almost begging. “We will tell you absolutely everything that you ask if we know the answers, I promise you. But we just got the results… I don’t think I can take any more today, Thea, and some of the things you need to know …” 

“Are going to be hard for us to say and even harder for you to hear,” Diggle finished for her when she trailed off. “And it’s been a really, really bad day. Learning about Oliver…” 

“My brother is _alive_ ,” Thea insisted, intensity radiating off of her. She looked ready to punch the next person who said otherwise. 

“Ok,” Felicity said strongly and Thea blinked, relaxing in surprise. Roy smirked to himself but made sure Thea didn’t see it. 

“What?” The confusion on her face made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. He took a step until he was standing at Thea’s shoulder, close enough to be a comforting presence but not so close as to crowd her. He’d seen Diggle do it a thousand times for Felicity, and he could see the tight lines of Thea’s shoulders ease a little more in reaction. It made him feel good. Diggle’s tiny approving nod made him feel even better. 

“No one is going to force anything on you,” Diggle said with comfortable calm. “Not one of us wants to believe that Oliver is dead.” 

“That’s right,” Felicity agreed immediately, holding out her hand to Thea, who took it automatically. “You believe that Oliver is alive, that’s ok. I support you; we support you. We don’t have a body and God knows that Oliver’s survived incredible things.” 

“Oh.” Thea’s shoulders slumped as though the expected fight was all that had been keeping her going. “What Laurel said… I thought you all believed he’s gone.” 

Felicity licked her lips and exchanged a glance with Diggle, but never let her hold on Thea’s hand waver. Roy moved a little closer. 

“I think… I think that the wound that was dealt by that sword was unsurvivable, and I think that it was Oliver who sustained that wound,” she said slowly, like every word hurt her to say. Diggle stepped up to her back and Roy could see Felicity visibly draw strength from his presence. “The evidence that we have, it says that he’s gone.” Felicity’s eyes were swimming with tears and her chin trembled but her shoulders stayed square. 

Roy reached for Thea’s free hand, holding it tightly. 

“But that doesn’t make it _truth_ either,” Felicity continued, “and if you believe that Oliver’s alive, we’re the last ones who’ll try to convince you otherwise. We...” Her voice broke, and Roy’s heart hurt for her all over again. 

Lyla spoke up from her perch on the couch. “We all loved Oliver, every person in this room,” she said firmly. “He’s our family, and so are you. But he isn’t here.” She smiled that lovely smile that made Roy think of music. “And it’s Christmas, and Christmas should be spent with your family.” She leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “You aren’t alone.” 

Felicity had closed her eyes and covered her mouth with her free hand. Thea studied them all for a long moment, examining everyone’s faces with faint suspicion but finally her eyes returned to the nakedly pained expression on Felicity’s face, and she crumpled. She pulled free of Roy’s hand and threw herself into Felicity’s arms, almost knocking her over with the unexpected embrace. Diggle reacted, placing a large hand on Felicity’s back to steady her. His other hand stroked Thea’s hair. Lyla reached for Roy and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before picking up the almost dozing Sara and heading for the baby’s room. 

Thea pulled away, wiping her face briskly. “Well,” she said with a weak smile, “Since it’s Christmas, I did bring these.” She reached into the front pocket of her sweater and pulled out a couple of slightly bent ornaments. Snowmen, with Oliver and Thea written unevenly across them. “I saved them from my tree.” 

“Saved them?” Roy frowned at her, not sure how that would work. 

“My tree had a mishap,” Thea told him with that over-brightness that meant something more on the lines of a disaster than a small accident. The smirk on her face told him she knew he knew it too. He smiled back, just happy to see that devastation eased even a little. 

“They’re adorable!” Felicity reached out a tentative finger and traced the ‘O’ in Oliver gently. 

Lyla returned. “They really are. You go put them on the tree, and Felicity will light the candles?” 

Felicity nodded and Roy was glad to see that some of the darkness had lifted from her eyes too, though it still hurt him to look at her for too long. She moved to the window and started to speak softly as she went through the process of lighting the candles. John went to say goodnight to Sara, and Roy took the opportunity to sit down beside Lyla on the couch and just try to force himself to relax. He was surprised to realize that he felt a little better too. 

Lyla was watching him steadily. 

“What?” 

“You’ve grown up so much,” she told him softly, so that only he could hear. “Johnny is so proud of you, Roy, and so was Oliver. They told me so.” 

Oh. 

It hit him like a punch in the gut and he felt his eyes well up. Lyla smiled just a little at how he started to blink rapidly. 

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and took his hand. Speechless, he turned back to the tree and watched Thea and Diggle discuss the perfect place to put the ornaments on the already full tree. Felicity lit the last candle and clasped her hands, lips still moving as she looked intently out the window. Roy had the impression that her attention was a long way away. 

On a mountaintop, with a ghost. 

He shook the thought away and turned back to Thea and Diggle, who had finally decided to rearrange some of the other items to allow the snowmen to be placed in the centre of the tree, circled by colourful cheerful sparkling lights. 

“Ok.” Thea said abruptly. “I won’t ask about anything else tonight. But you’re going to come clean with me. No more secrets.” 

They all nodded in agreement. 

“In that case,” she said, and Roy could feel the whole room relax around him. “Where’s the eggnog?” 

Lyla laughed. 

A thin two-tone chime trilled insistently and Felicity jumped, spinning on her heel to stare at her coat in surprise. 

“Felicity?” Diggle and Roy said it together, registering the alarm on her face at the same time. 

Felicity shook herself a little and strode over to her coat with quick strides that looked a lot tenser than usual. Reflexively Roy followed, looking over her shoulder as she pulled her mini-tablet free of her pocket. Quick, sure fingers danced across the screen and although he would have sworn a minute earlier that she couldn’t look paler than she already did, somehow she managed it. Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head a little. 

“What is it?” At Lyla’s question she straightened her shoulders and turned to face them. 

“It’s the warning net I set up to let me know if the as yet unidentified bad guys were looking for us,” Felicity told them tiredly. 

“Which bad guys?” Thea sounded somewhere between alarmed and intrigued. Roy thought of all the trouble Thea could get into messing with this particular set of thugs and felt sick to his stomach all over again. 

“You saw the news about the human trafficking ring that the police raided a week or so ago?” Diggle rumbled from where he’d taken the seat beside Lyla. At Thea’s frown, he nodded sombrely. “Yeah. _Those_ bad guys.” 

“How close are they?” Roy asked softly, not liking the way Felicity avoided his eyes. 

“They’re nowhere near the Arrow, or Arsenal,” she told them, setting her hand on his arm and trying to sound reassuring. Only Thea seemed to buy it. “They’re really just poking around the edges so far. But they’re going to get serious in a hurry if they sniff anything.” She swiped a finger over the screen and slid the mini back in her coat pocket. “Which isn’t going to happen tonight.” Resolutely she picked up the glass of red wine that Lyla had poured for her when they’d arrived, taking her first sip. Roy was pretty sure he was the only one close enough to see how her fingers shook, and from the quelling look she sent him she knew it, too. 

“We need to lay low,” Diggle announced it firmly, clearly not willing to put up with any arguments. Lyla was nodding in agreement, and so was Felicity. 

“The Glades have been quiet,” she said, “and Digg’s right, we need to make sure that we’re buried deep right now. We need to know more before we give them any chance at finding targets.” She took another long drink of the wine, this time a gulp. “And we all need some time, to ...process.” 

He could not have disagreed more, but looking at the exhaustion on all the faces around him he knew it really wasn’t the time to argue. So, instead, he nodded. 

Lyla clapped her hands on her thighs and stood, pulling Diggle up with her and dragging him over to the stereo. She clicked it on and some soft Christmas music came on. An instant later she’d pulled him into a dance. “Eggnog’s in the kitchen,” she said cheerfully over her shoulder, ignoring Diggle’s grumble. “No more shop talk. It’s Christmas. So dance.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Roy said, and held out his hand to Thea, who took it with a smile and settled into his arms for a dance. Felicity patted him on the shoulder and headed for the kitchen. 

It wasn’t the Christmas they’d wanted, he thought to himself, but at least they’d spend it together.


	8. Revelation

Felicity woke to Thea nudging her shoulder with a gentle finger. She looked around blearily, recognizing the snoring lump on the floor as Roy. John and Lyla were presumably in their room. She fumbled for her glasses and shoved them onto the bridge of her nose before glaring at Thea grumpily. 

"I know,” Thea forestalled her annoyance with a placating hand. “I know it’s early and I know it’s Christmas Day, but I can’t wait any more. Please, Felicity, I need to know what else you have to tell me.” Her bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers announced her sleepless night as loudly as a shout, and Felicity felt a thick welling of affection for this girl. She was only five years older than Thea but there was such a chasm of differences between them. 

And, this was Oliver’s sister, and so like him in so many ways; the ones that counted. 

Felicity pushed back the blanket and swung her feet to the floor, nodding acquiescence. “Ok,” she said softly. “Let’s go.” 

Thea nodded eagerly and put on her coat, waiting with barely leashed impatience as Felicity gathered her things and joined her. 

They made the drive to Verdant in silence, only Thea’s deepening frown as they crossed the Glades showing her confusion. They parked, and Felicity led her to the side door. 

“Oh, of course,” Thea said as Felicity typed in the code to hidden entrance. “So many things suddenly make perfect sense.” 

Felicity pushed open the door and led the way inside. “Wait here,” she said softly as the door closed behind them, then crossed the floor with sure steps even in the darkness until she reached the master switch. 

Taking a deep breath, she mentally girded herself for whatever Thea’s reaction would be, and threw the switch. 

The blue lights blazed to life, the thick thud of the switch handle echoing in the cavernous space as it always did. Thea’s eyes widened as she took in the Foundry in all its glory. “Wow,” she said, taking a few tentative steps inside before starting to explore with more confidence. 

Felicity watched the wonder on her face with a heavy heart and the ache of tears behind her eyes. It was so unfair, all of this; it wasn’t enough that Oliver was dead, no. It wasn’t enough that they had to face _that_. Now they also had to face _this_. 

Thea looked at her from beside the glass case holding the Arrow leathers. “It’s true, isn’t it?” She asked it with her voice full of a complicated mix of awe, frustration, and pride. “Ollie’s the vigilante. _My brother_ is the Arrow.” 

Felicity nodded, her throat too thick to talk. 

“When he came back from the island, I knew he was different. He was so … absent.” Thea wandered to the weapons table, running her finger down one of the arrow shafts tentatively. “I gave him so much grief over that. All I wanted was my brother back, and he was there right in front of me, but he wasn’t. He was still back there.” She touched the tip of one of the arrows, frowning at the drop of blood that appeared. 

Felicity sat down in her chair and let her talk. 

“I asked him to talk to someone. I wanted it to be me.” Thea continued deeper into the shadows. “But Ollie had to have his secrets.” She gave a pain-filled sigh. 

“He talked about the island, a little,” Felicity offered into the silence when Thea stopped talking. “When he had to. But I don’t… I don’t think that what happened on Lian Yu was a _secret_ , Thea. When he had to tell us what happened, when it was important, he did. I think what happened on the island was just…” She considered briefly. “Private. Intensely private.” 

“Was being the Arrow just ‘private’ too?” Thea crossed the back edge of the practice mats and started coming back towards the computer table, stopping at the training dummies and testing one of the arms with a push. 

“No,” Felicity told her flatly. “That was definitely a secret.” 

“A secret he trusted you with.” She could hear the despair in Thea’s voice and it twisted her heart more. “When he couldn’t trust me.” 

“It wasn’t about trust. It was about love. Oliver… Oliver wanted you to never know about this side of him, because he wanted you to get to keep your brother.” Felicity rocked her chair back and forth, trying not to look at the glass case, trying not to look at the training mats. Trying not to look at anything, really. “Even if you believe nothing else I ever tell you, believe this: Oliver loved you more than anything else, more than anyone else in the world. Everything he did from the time he came home was for two things: to help people, and to keep you safe.” She shoved to her feet. “Everything else came second.” 

Thea slowly walked over to stand in front of her. She nodded gravely. “It’s time to tell me the rest.” 

“Yes.” A few taps on the keyboard brought up the start of the video feed. “Thea… This isn’t anything you’re going to want to know. But I’m telling you now; I will never lie to you, big or small. Never.” She took a deep breath and took Thea’s hand, not missing how she was eying her, askance at her intensity. “Malcolm was drugging your tea with a herb called votura, which makes people respond to commands and forget what happened. He was being tracked by a very dangerous man, Ra’s al Ghul, who wanted him to pay for violating the codes of the League of Assassins. Malcolm…” She had to take a breath. Thea’s eyes had sharpened and she stared at her like a hawk targeting its prey. “Malcolm arranged to have their representative killed. By you.” 

She pressed play. 

Thea watched the video silently, her mouth sagging open in horror as she saw Sara die. When it ended with the view of her own face her burning gaze snapped back to Felicity’s. 

“Sara Lance,” Felicity confirmed softly, seeing the horror intensify in Thea’s face when she said the name. She hated having to do this. “Ra’s contacted Oliver and Oliver promised to figure out who killed her. We had no idea…” She shook her head. “We learned about this, about Malcolm’s actions, just as the deadline came up. Malcolm,” she couldn’t keep the rage, the venom out of her voice any longer. “forced Oliver to choose between a massacre in Starling, serving you up to Ra’s al Ghul, or facing Ra’s in a duel himself.” 

“He chose to go himself.” 

“There was never any real choice to make,” Felicity admitted painfully. “We tried to find anything else…” 

“This is because of me.” Thea’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ _No_.” Immediately Felicity wrapped her into a hug, holding her fiercely. “No, don’t say that. Don’t even _think_ that. This is because of Malcolm Merlyn. It was all set in motion back when he decided on the Undertaking. Every single thing that’s happened since has been because of that.” 

“He’s my father. His blood …” 

Felicity pulled back and gave her a shake. “Doesn’t mean anything. You’ve been so lucky, Thea. Your first father was Robert Queen, who loved you more than anything. Your second father was Walter Steele, who is as fine a man as I have ever met. And your third father was Moira Queen, who was absolutely terrifying and I kind of hated, but she was a badass and she loved you. Don’t turn away from who you made yourself into. You’re someone to be proud of.” 

Thea tugged free and wiped her wet cheeks with both hands. “I … I cannot deal with all of this right now.” 

“Me either.” Felicity’s phone pinged and she quickly checked it. “We’re being called back to John and Lyla’s,” she said, tilting it to show Thea the screen. “Apparently it’s time for breakfast.” She shoved it back into her pocket. “What do you say? Denial for the rest of the day? Or, at least, our best effort at it?” 

Thea tucked her hand into the crook of Felicity’s arm. “Denial of what?” she asked brightly. “I see nothing to deny here.” 

Felicity couldn’t help the smile that broke over her face and they headed for the door. “I hear it’s a river in Egypt,” she said. “Maybe we should look it up.” 

“Later,” Thea said. 

“Yeah,” Felicity agreed, squeezing her hand. “Much, much later.”


	9. The Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nameless man struggles with the invisible illness that plagues him.

The training was a means to an end. 

He reminded himself of this daily, sometimes hourly, as Nyssa’s instruction continued in what felt like minimal increments. Her eyes were always on him, always evaluating him with that level, angry gaze. She watched him relentlessly even when he wasn’t training, her eyes probing even the tiniest of movements and expression. Looking for signs of the nameless man whose face he wore? It didn’t really matter of course, the ceaseless examination didn’t bother him. 

Nothing bothered him. 

Nothing except the void that he could feel, the gaping emptiness that existed somewhere inside of him that nothing could reach. 

Nyssa’s searching glare was nothing to him, but the aching _wrongness_ inside his own chest was a constant creeping horror that he couldn’t turn off and couldn’t escape. Training made it marginally less, allowed him some tiny room to _breathe_ , and the drugs that Nyssa fed him provided some additional trivial assistance; they fogged his mind just enough to push away the unending chafe inside. He welcomed the drugged tea and the brutal training regimen, Nyssa’s demands for perfection in movement and skill. They gave him just enough space, sometimes, to sleep. 

Whenever he woke, it would be worse, a maddening _itch_ in his mind, beating at him in a perpetual thrum of ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’. 

The sensation was getting stronger, growing in size and intensity. It felt as though it was expanding from his centre, slowly eating him. It stole his mind at odd moments. It stole whatever sense of self he managed to build within his drugged fog. 

He didn’t mind that. His mind and his self were irrelevant, transitory. 

The _itch_ , though, wasn’t. 

There was only one memory available to him that didn’t contain this _abscess_ , this canker in his brain. 

Training, compliance, obedience; they were all a means to the end that he required. 

He had to go back in the Pit.


End file.
